Tasting the stars
by toomuchchampagne
Summary: When Emma Decody's father dies, she moves in with the Bates family. What she doesn't know is that she's now now living under the same roof as her father's killer. Thankfully Dylan is here to watch over her. Future fic
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

I wrote this during my exams to relieve stress/procrastinate. I've corrected some of the mistakes and rewrote around some of the parts but I guess it's still pretty messy. This one really got away from me. I'll see about writing a part II but I can't guarantee you that I will.

* * *

When Emma Decody's father is killed—one more mysterious murder in less than a year, they've lost count by now—it seems perfectly natural to everybody in town that she moves in with the Bates. Even if she's over eighteen, she's sick and still very young. No one expects her to make it on her own. And it makes sense for her to go with the Bates. She has worked there for over six-months now, and they're the only people she really ever socializes with. They are the only people in town who even come close to being called family friends. Plus with Dylan Massett there whoever killed her father wouldn't dare come near again.

Her mother doesn't show up to the funeral, but the Bates are here for her. Norma holds her arm and let Emma cry on her shoulder. Norman cries a lot too. And Dylan, even though he is a Massett and not technically a Bates, is never far. She catches his eyes a few times during the ceremony and each time they're full of kindness, sorrow and compassion. It makes her feel slightly better, or maybe less worse.

When the service is over, he takes her free arm.

"I'll drive her," he tells Norma. She looks surprised at first, but all it takes is for him to tilt his head pointedly toward Norman for her to let go of Emma.

"Alright."

Emma is not sure what is happening, but she has just buried her father and she has no energy left to care. He leads her gently through the crowd in mourning clothes that has gathered around her father's grave, carrying her oxygen tank carefully for her. If anyone had intended to stop her for a few common place words of sympathy, her tears-stained face and the man escorting her were enough to discourage them.

His car is parked a little further away from the cemetery than she had expected, but she finds some strange relief in the walk and the silence. He opens the door for her and helps her into the car. She feels like she's falling. He sets the oxygen tank by her feet and looks up at her, worried. He's saying something, but she has no idea what. It must have been regarding her seat belt because he sighs and just buckles her in himself, as if she were a child.

Before he can move away she catches his hand in a grip stronger than what he would have expected of a girl so frail-looking.

"You've killed people, right?"

He hesitates, but there is no point in denying it. The whole town knows. He's one who won the drug war. He's the new boss, even though he has no idea what he's doing.

"Yes."

"Why? Why does a person kill another person?"

"To protect themselves. Because they feel like they have no other options."

"But how could that apply to my dad?"

"I'm telling you the reasons I know Emma. Some things cannot be explained. What happened to your father—it was probably the work of an insane person. Maybe they felt like they had no other options, maybe they truly believed it. Maybe they were just insane. I don't know."

When he stops talking, he realizes that it's not her hand gripping his anymore but the opposite. He's holding her hand. He's still almost kneeling on the sidewalk, half of his body in and the other out of the car, and he's holding her hand, while they're having their first meaningful conversation. He's glad he parked as far away from the cemetery as he did and no one is seeing this.

"It's the first time someone I love dies," she says. "I mean, I lost people I love. Like my mother, and Gunnar. They both left me without a word. But it's not the same thing, is it? There's always this hope, always this maybe."

Somehow he doesn't think it is the right time to tell her that Gunnar died, so he lets her continue.

"There was this girl I was friend with when I first went into hospital. She was waiting for a heart transplant. Anyway, she died. She was my age, and for a few weeks I thought she was my best friend. There were other hospital friends and other funerals after that. I thought I knew everything about grief, but I didn't have a clue, did I?"

"When it comes to some things, it's better to be clueless."

"Did you ever loose someone you loved?"

He thinks about it. He lost guys he worked with, some he really cared about. Companions in arms. But they're just like her hospital friends, they don't count the way a father does. He thinks about Bradley and wonder where she is, if she's still alive.

"No," he says. "We should get going."

He rises, and presses her hand a little tighter before letting it go.

They drive, but they're not taking the direct road to the motel. Instead, Dylan pulls over in a secluded spot overlooking the sea.

"Listen," he says, "I don't like what I have to tell you now, but if I don't say it I will hate myself even more."

"What?" Whatever this is, she's too tired for it. She just wants to go home and lie down.

"You can't live with Norma."

She blinks. "She said I could stay as long as I wanted." Hadn't she meant it?

"And if you ask her, she'll say it again. But I can't allow that. It's not in your best interest Emma, believe me."

She was not expecting this.

"I cannot live in this big house all alone, while his killer is still out there," she says, and the fear in her voice makes Dylan wince. Of course, he cannot tell her that if she stays with the Bates, she'll be sharing her roof with the killer.

He cannot betray his family. There lies all the difficulty of his new self-appointed role as Emma's protector.

"I know you don't know me well, but I'm going to have to ask you to trust me on this. It would be dangerous for you to stay there. Norma…I know you think she's nice, but she's not. In your state right now, it wouldn't be good for you to stay with her."

"I thought that whatever was going on between you and your mom this summer was done. You moved back didn't you?"

"I moved back because they needed me to protect them. They're my family. I could never really get away. I have no one else."

"I don't have anyone else either. I don't have anywhere else to go."

"I could give you some money," he offers. "Enough to go anywhere you want and set up a new life for yourself. Away from here."

She looks at him like he has gone completely insane. "So I can be away from everyone I know and the doctor who has been following me since I was ten?"

He rubs his head in defeat. She sighs.

"Just drive me home Dylan. I don't really get what's your problem and frankly I don't care. All I want is to lie down and rest."

He complies, but he promises himself that he will keep a close eye on her.

/

And that's what he does, for the next week or so. He watches her every day. It starts as a duty, but she's not unpleasant to watch. In fact, he has always found her pretty. Too pretty for Norman, he thought. But she's more. She's beautiful. And watching her go through something as terrible as the death of her father is heart-breaking.

Norman finds himself taking on her shifts at work that first week, and Dylan is grateful for that, not only because it keeps his little brother away from Emma, but also because it gives him an excuse to stay by her side and protect her from them.

She never mentions the conversation they had in the car, and neither does he.

/

"I think I'm the one who did it, Mother. I'm the one who killed him."

"But Norman, no. That makes no sense. Why would you do that? You liked him so much!"

"He was trying to take me away from you, mother. He was coming between us. I had to. Nothing can keep us apart."

/

"Do you want anything?" he asks Emma. It's the end of the first week since the funeral, and this morning, for the first time, she is outside, sitting on their front porch.

"I need to go visit his grave," she answers.

"Sure," he says. "I'll take you."

He's relived when she doesn't protest.

It's weird, seeing the cemetery so empty when the last time they were here it was covered by a sea of people. The grave still looks new. She sits next to it. On her knees, holding her oxygen tank against her chest, she cries. When Dylan kneels beside her she takes his hand and doesn't let go.

"For all my life, he thought I would die before him. That he would have to bury me. And it hurt him so much. I hope—whoever did this—I hope they left him the time, that before he died he had a moment to realize that he wouldn't have to see me die. That he was free. I hope he found some relief, some peace from that. Fathers don't bury their daughters. The natural order is restored now."

He snakes his arms around her shoulders and hugs her tights against his chest, the oxygen tank between them.

It's comforting, she thinks. It feels good. Good to be alive.

"I didn't think about it until last night. For so long I wished I could have been there, that I had been the one who died. I don't have much time anyway, what would it have changed? But now I realize how stupid that was. If he found any comfort it was from knowing that I was not there, that I would survive him."

"I'm sure he did," he whispers against her hair.

The urge he felt to protect her is getting stronger now, with his hands around her waist and her heart against his, he wishes he could take away her pain. Absorb it and free her. Make her smile again.

He doesn't let go of her hand until they reach the car. Once there, he's not sure what to do. He's not ready for the moment to end, and he doesn't think she is either.

"Do you want to go home straight away?" he asks.

"Not really."

"We could go for a drive," he offers.

"That didn't go too well last time," she remarks. "But sure."

He makes sure to avoid the road on the day of the funeral, instead letting himself get lost near the woods. Somewhere on the way, her hand finds itself on the console, and he takes it. She smiles.

It's small but it's there. A burgeoning beginning, full of possibility.

/

"Mother, it cannot go on. Emma cannot stay."

"Why, dear?"

"I killed her father! What if she finds out? What if she suspects something? And I can't live like this, with her always around, reminding me of what I did."

She silences him and cups his cheeks.

"You did what you had to, honey, to protect us. And by letting Emma stay, I'm doing what I have to do to protect you. There is a police investigation going on. But as long as she stays here nobody will dare suspect us. We have to keep her close, Norman."

/

Emma's alone in the kitchen and smiles her greeting at him when he comes in. "Hey."

"Hey, you're up early," Dylan points out. He had to get up in the middle of the night to take care of some drug-related complication, and is only now coming home as the sun is rising.

"I've slept too much lately."

She's still smiling at him. It's strange, in a dazzling way.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

His lips curve into a sarcastic smile. "Crime never sleeps."

She nods but doesn't comment further, to his relief. "You want something? I was just making some coffee."

"Sure," he says, sitting opposite her. There's no way he could get back to bed after burying those two bodies anyway.

She hands him a cup and fills it up to the brink. His eyes are on her chocolate iris as he takes in the wonderful smell and tastes the warm liquid. She's wearing bright green striped pyjama shorts and a soft orange t-shirt. His clothes are covered in dust and dry blood.

"Delicious," he says.

She tilts her own cup toward his in salute, sits and goes back to her breakfast. They don't talk, but having her so close, sharing such a light and mundane—almost happy—moment with her feels good.

He's never had that. This domestic feeling.

It's nice. It feels like something they have done thousands of times before and could still do a thousands of times more.

/

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks him one afternoon as they are lounging under the warm autumn sun. He drove them to his favourite spot so they could enjoy the last nice days of the year, and now she's lying by his side on the grass. They've been going on a lot of drives lately.

"You were nice to me. You came and visited me in hospital after I got run over by that car, remember? Besides, have you ever considered that maybe I'm not just being nice to you but I might actually be a nice person?"

"I've considered it," she says quietly. "But then I remember how you were a jerk to me right after my father's funeral."

"I wasn't being a jerk, I was trying to look after you—'

"Well, it was some pretty shitty timing."

"Hey," he says, getting up on one elbow to try and catch her gaze. When their eyes meet her tense expression softens. It's all the encouragement he needs to be bold enough to reach for her hand. "I'm sorry," he says, pressing her hand in his. "I shouldn't have done that. Not that day, and not like that. It was shitty of me. But I assure you my intentions were pure. If you ever change your mind, if you ever want to leave, just say the word and I'll make the arrangements."

The truth is, even though he knows it's what's best for her, he doesn't want her to leave. Not anymore. Not when he's holding her hand like this, and she's so so close to him, close enough that he can feel her body warmth radiating through his clothes, close enough that he can feel how it would be like to hold her completely, his body on top of hers, becoming one. No, what he wants is the opposite of her leaving.

So for the time being, he'll just keep watching over her.

/

"What did you want to talk to me about, Norman?"

"Dylan. He's spending too much time with Emma. I don't like it."

"But, darling, he's keeping her busy. Distracted. He makes her leave the house. It's good for us."

"What if he told her, Mother?"

"He won't. Dylan wouldn't betray us."

"We cannot trust other people. It's just us two, or did you forget?"

"I will never forget. And I don't trust Dylan, I know he wouldn't dare do it. We're all he has."

"He is changing, Mother."

"Listen dear, you have to be patient. The investigation is almost over. Soon, they are going to close the case. You have to be patient until then. Afterwards, we'll see. We'll figure it out together."

/

She watches him leave at night with a pang in her stomach. She knows where he's going and what he does. She doesn't mind it, she's just worried. What if something goes wrong? What if he doesn't come back?

She thinks he can feel her gaze on him because, before disappearing from her sight, he turns around—he always does—and raises the hand holding his cigarette towards her in a mock salute while his curved lips exhale twirling smoke.

Her hand is on the window's glass; unconsciously trying to reach out to him. She smiles as he turns back and leave. The small exchange brings her more comfort than any long speech could. It's enough because it tells her that he knows. He knows that she's here, that she cares, that she is overwhelmed by this feeling she cannot name. And it tells her that he cares too. Because he always looks back, always greets her one last time in case the worst occurs. Because he knows how important this thing, this connection between them is.

And every time after he has left she waits up, reading and listening for the sounds of his return. When he first gets back, she doesn't go and meet him just yet, even though she desires nothing more than to see him, to make sure he's alright, because she knows he doesn't want her to see him like this. He got really upset once when she caught him with blood on his shirt. Ashamed and afraid. Since then she waits until his own ritual is done, until he feels clean again.

When she hears the shower turning on, she climbs down a flight of stairs and goes and waits for him in his room. It's sparse, and the bed is always made. It looks almost like one of the motel's rooms. She sits on the bed and waits, closing her eyes. When she's here like that, with the sound of the water running, she can't help but picture him. Is the water warm or cold? She wants to get all the details right in her mind. She can see the droplets running down his torso, she can see his eyes closed in relief as the water washes away the traces of the night. Does he think about her? He knows she's here, waiting for him. It happened too many times for him not to expect it. Does he touch himself in the comfort of the warm water? Or does he take advantage of the dripping water on his face to cry?

She did that for a long time, cry where no one could see her, and she has a feeling maybe Dylan is the same. But now her showers do not hold tears so much as steaming hot fantasies in which Dylan always stars.

When he finally comes out, his hair darkened by the water, her imagination is running wild and she has to bite back the images of his naked body dancing around in her head. Their eyes meet, both awkward and guilty. But then she smiles and he smiles and suddenly they're going on a drive in the middle of the night—just them, the road and the darkly looming sky—and she's holding his hand.

/

Emma smiles, lying in her room at the top of the stair, in the old attic. She likes this room. It looks like something out of the fantasy novels she used to read as a child. She's smiling more and more now, even though she cannot quite cover up the sadness that still looms in her eyes.

But right now she's smiling, really smiling, with her eyes lighting up, because she has recognized Dylan's step climbing up the stairs to the attic. These surprise visits are getting more and more frequent lately. She's not sure what it means but she likes it either way. She sits upright on her bed, fusses with her hair for a moment to try and make it look more decent.

He knocks. "Hey, you up?"

"Yes, come in," she calls.

He flashes her a grin and goes to sit on the desk chair he always occupies during those late night visits. She wishes he would sit next to her on the bed, but he makes a point of staying away.

"How was work?" she asks in a teasing voice. For some reason, she thinks making fun of his drug lord career is hilarious. He doesn't mind, really. She's cute when she tries to make fun of him.

"Nobody died, so I'd say it was a good day."

She freezes at his words. It's the way he usually replies though, so he's not sure what triggered that reaction.

"Dylan, I have to ask you. My father when he—was it drug related?"

"No." But the answer comes too quickly, it just prompts more questions.

"How do you know? How can you be so sure?"

There's tears at the corners of her eyes, tears that he hasn't seen in weeks.

"I asked around after his death."

"And?" Her voice is choked by emotion. He can't stay away when she's so upset. He leaves his chair and crosses the invisible line he always puts between the two of them in this room and comes to kneel by her bed. He takes the hand that's shaking in her lap and cover it with his, rubbing soothing circles with his calloused fingers.

"It wasn't drugs Emma," he says softly.

"How can you be so sure?" she repeats. "Unless you know who killed him and why?"

"You have to trust me."

She shouldn't. He's a criminal and a killer. And yet at this instant she cannot think of anyone she trusts more. How could she not trust him, when he's looking so vulnerable and beautiful, kneeling by her bed, his big blue eyes looking up at her with so much intensity?

"I trust you," she says.

"Then leave. Leave White Pine Bay and don't come back."

"This, again?" she sighs. She thought they had moved past this.

"I'm serious Emma. You'll never be happy here. Nobody can be happy here."

"Then why don't you leave?"

"Because it doesn't matter where I go. I'll never be free of my family or myself. It doesn't matter where I go because I'll never be happy anyway. And I have an obligation to my family, to stay here and protect them."

"Bullshit," she calls.

"What?"

"You heard me. I refuse to believe a word of that."

His lips curl in a sad imitation of a smile. If she knew—

"There's a lot you don't know about me Emma."

"And yet I trust you. So maybe you should trust me too."

Her eyes are brown and warm like morning coffee, full of hope and trust. He can't take it, so he hides his face in her lap, but it's not the best hiding place because her hands find the way to his hair and her caresses are so tender and soothing that the truth comes pouring out of his mouth.

Not the whole truth but parts of it. Enough to make her run away from him, away from here. Maybe then she can be saved from Norman's growing insanity.

But she doesn't run, she doesn't spurn him. When he's done, she lifts up his face, cups his cheek and kisses him.

He didn't expect that, but it feels good and he doesn't question it, just kisses her back. He has wanted to do so for so long and her lips taste like the chocolate candy she's always eating, sweet just like her.

But the kiss isn't so sweet. It has a frantic and desperate quality. They've held back for too long and now passion comes bursting as tension is finally resolved. She lets herself fall down the bed and onto his lap. He's never had her so close as she is now.

It's frightening, having her entirely in his arms, like she's finally his to protect, his to care for. And she's so small and tiny, frail under her colourful clothes, what if he hurts her? But she's still kissing him and her hand is slipping under his shirt and soon he's too hard to think. He just brings her closer, feels her whimper through their joined lips and kiss her harder before taking off his shirt. He can't get enough of the feeling of her soft hands on his back, skin against skin, and he wants more of it.

He scoops her up in his arms and carries her to the bed, he puts her down gently on top of the covers and helps her get rid of her lavender sleep shirt. She's beautiful, naked except for her blue polka dot panties, but he's too eager to stop and stare as much as he ought to. He kisses down her collar bone to her small and soft breasts but doesn't stop there on his exploration southward.

His mouth is hungry and warm against her cunt, almost aggressively so. But no words of complaint escape her lips, only a litany of _yes_ and _please _followed by his name, repeated over and over.

He's never been prouder than when he makes her scream in ecstasy, her whole body quivering against his, and it's only the beginning of the night.

/

When the sun comes up, she awakes before he does. His arm is around her waist, it's heavy but it feels good. She plays with his soft blond hair, thinking until he wakes up. He smiles when he first sees her, but there is something about her quiet seriousness that chases the smile away.

"Dylan. I think it's time," she says softly. She had enough time to thinks about it, she's made her decision. "I want to leave."

"Oh," he says, as if he has always known this moment would come, as if he has been dreading it for weeks.

"And I think, you should come with me."

He laughs, in part out of relief and in part at the absurdity of what she proposes, and he laughs until he says yes, and then she's laughing too, and their bodies are intertwined, shaking from too much happiness. It feels like they are tasting the stars.

FIN

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Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think. If you have any ideas or suggestion for a part two, those are always inspiring, I'm toying with a few ideas right now but I can't get it right it seems.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Bates Motel or any of the characters on the show.

AN: Since some of you asked, here is a second part on what happened after they left and what life could be for Dylan and Emma outside of WPB. It's mostly fluff, so enjoy :)

* * *

They go for a drive like they always do. They stop by the Decody's house and then by the cemetery before leaving White Pine Bay behind us with no intention of coming back and two and a half millions hidden in the trunk.

Their joined hands rest on the console and it all feels very Bonnie and Clyde.

They change cars before changing states. It should feel like goodbye but as she meets Dylan's eyes and smiles all she wants to say is _Hello_.

/

It's just the two of them and the open road, in this new car Dylan loves so much. Every night they stop in a new motel and the irony always makes her smile. Dylan is just nervous and uncomfortable with this cosmic joke until she drags him to the bed and kisses him and makes him forget in a thousand delightful ways everything but her skin against his.

There is a shyness to him when they're together that she wouldn't have expected. Like he can't believe her legs around his waist, her fingers in his hair and her lips on his. So she cups his jaw and forces his blue eyes to meet her gaze and whispers sweet nothings to him while her other hand, southbound, slides down his stomach

/

They're not running, not really. They just left. Their departure might have angered the wrong people though, not just Norma and Norman but his business partners too, and they have to be careful about staying under the radar.

Because it's easy to disappear in a crowd, because he does better in big cities, and mostly because she has always wanted to go to California they find themselves in Los Angeles. She can see the ocean from their new flat, it's not perfect, but she can't imagine anything better.

They celebrate with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. It's the first time Emma tastes champagne, and the bubbly sensation she gets is similar to what she feels when Dylan looks at her.

He raises his glass. "To a new life," he says, his eyes devouring her.

"To a new life," she echoes, and around her the world is spinning but she can't be sure whether it's the champagne or Dylan.

Soon his lips crush hers, and their drinks are forgotten but the sparkling taste of his lips is heavenly. She melts into his arms, and after his expert touch turns the sparks into a blazing fire he's inside her and she's seeing stars.

/

"White is boring," she declares, studying the wall.

"How should we paint it then?" he asks. He stands behind her, his arms around her small frame.

"Blue," she answers without having to think about it. It's her favourite colour now, her lucky one. Blue like the ocean, like the California sky, like his eyes.

He kisses her hair. There has been no big declaration between them, but these small gestures, all these moments adding up speak louder than they ever could. He kisses her hair, and all that needs to be said is said. She leans back into his embrace.

It should feel strange—it all happened so fast—but it doesn't. They've waited long enough.

They had no one, now they share the same bed and starting a new life together.

It feels like he was reborn when she first kissed him. She accepted him, welcomed him, wanted him in a way no one else ever had. She made him hers without even realizing what she was doing.

They go to the farmer markets together, walk by the beach, cook together and make love a lot. It's almost an accident when he gets a job as a mechanic. Not long after she's hired by one of her new friends from yoga class in an interior design firm.

She asked him as they left White Pine Bay disappear in the rear view mirror whether they needed new names and cover stories now.

He had laughed. "It's not like in the movies."

When people ask, she says that they left their small town after her father died. Nothing was holding them back, they needed a change. Something new. "And I'd always wanted to see LA," she adds. It's such a stock answer, but no one would think to question it.

She likes to tell people that Dylan and her are high school sweethearts. Soon none of this feels like a lie.

/

"I feel like all we're talking about is my boyfriend drama. How come we never talk about yours? How do you and Dylan never fight?" her friend Jaya asks her one day as they sip smoothies together after work. Jaya and her boyfriend are going through yet another round of epic fights.

"I don't know," Emma answers. She never really asked herself this question before. She's still amazed by how good it all feels, how well they're doing.

"But you never fight, right? You must have a secret."

They have plenty of secrets. And maybe that's part of the reason they never fight. They share too much. They're connected to each other in a way no one can understand.

"I don't think we ever had a fight. We do get upset at each other sometimes. But mostly it's always about the same things. Like I get upset when I feel like he's not sharing stuff with me because he thinks I'm too fragile to handle it. Or he gets upset when he thinks I'm not sharing stuff with him because I don't want him to worry."

Jaya rolls her eyes. "That's like disgustingly adorable. Do you have fights about who cares about the other the most too?"

"Maybe," Emma says, mischief and pride sparkling up her eyes.

"God, you know, this is so ridiculously sweet that I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen you two together. And now you just have to tell me your secret. How do you do never yell at each other over stupid things?"

Emma takes a long swallow of her drink and thinks. "Well, I guess we have a lot of perspective."

"Oh right, because of the whole lung disease thingy," Jaya says, nodding toward the oxygen tank.

Maybe it should be offensive, but it's actually one of the thing Emma likes the most about her new friend, she doesn't treat her any different because of her CF.

"Yeah. But it's not just that. We both had shitty childhood and come from fucked up family. From the beginning we always had our eye on not being like them. We understand each other and always look out for one another."

"You're best friends."

"I like to think of us more like accomplices. You wanna know something weird though?"

"Sure," her friends says, biting the end of her straw.

"We've never said I love you."

It's something Emma has been thinking about more and more lately. Whenever they're together, there is no doubt in Emma's mind that he loves her. Or never in so many words at least. Dylan is more of the silent type.

Her friend almost does a spit-take. "What the hell? You guys live together, you left everything behind to be together, you're practically married for god's sake and you've never said I love you to each other, not even once? Why?"

She shrugs. It never felt necessary.

"I know how he feels. And you might have noticed but Dylan isn't much of a talker."

"Then what's your excuse? Did you ever tell him?"

She says it during sex sometimes. She's not sure whether he hears it or not, but it always seems to her that he'll hold her longer and tighter after it when she does, but somehow she doesn't think it counts.

"Is that bad?" she asks.

"Girl. You go right now. I don't want to see you until you've fixed this. Go home and tell this man you love him. Go!"

It's crazy and stupid and she's not even sure Dylan will care anyway but she still does it. She picks up her bag with her tank in it and doesn't stop until she finds him.

He's in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when she walks in.

"Hey," she calls, biting her lips nervously.

"Hey," he says looking up from his drink to meet her equally warm coffee-eyes, "you're home early."

"I love you," she says, blurting it out without preamble, but it had been sitting on the top of her tongue for too long.

He freezes in his sit at first, his blue eyes almost cold from the shock. But then he smiles and stands up to meet her in the middle of the room. He cups her blushing cheeks to force her averted eyes to meet his gaze, she sees the smile and the happiness there. He kisses her.

"I know," he whispers against her lips. And before she has time to berate him for quoting Star Wars to her when they're having a moment, he adds, "I love you too, Emma Decody."

/

But love is not always enough to keep the darkness at bay. They've lived here for two years now. They're settled, with steady jobs, a beautiful apartment and lots of new, normal friends. And despite that, some days it still feel like they're drifting, running away.

When they both get this haunted and restless feeling they do what they always do. They go for a ride.

They let the top down, the warm breeze hits them, her hand on his over the console and their future right ahead, on the open road. Yet somehow the ghost of White Pine Bay can still be seen in the rear view mirror, so they don't look back.

But these are just impromptu getaways, midnight road trips, they always come back to the apartment with the blue walls and the balcony over-looking the sea.

It's 2 am and they're driving in the desert, somehow they've almost made their way from LA to Palm Springs. She's wearing a floral sundress and nothing else, she kicked off her sandals hours ago. It was warm when they left, but the desert is a cold and strange place. Foreign in a way to anything human. Maybe that's why they always seem to come back here, this otherworldness.

She already has a blanket wrapped around her, but Dylan still shrugs off his jacket and gives it to her. And maybe it's this little act, this ordinary and so familiar act of kindness and devotion—making her feel safe and loved—that prompts her to tell him what's on her mind.

"You're my family," she says.

He smiles, eyes on the road and presses her hand.

"And you're the only family that I've got. But you, you still have other people. Do you still think of them like that? Do you still consider them your family?"

This time he looks at her. "I was never a part of their family, Emma. Before you, I was alone. And now it's just the two of us."

She remembers her father's funeral and the loneliness she felt. She remembers the crowd of strangers and Dylan's arm around her when she needed it the most.

"Just the two of us," she echoes musingly. "It doesn't have to be."

She swallows, tries to gauge his reaction. But he stares straight ahead.

"What do you mean?" he asks. He's not sure what she's getting at but he can feel the nervous energy running through her body.

"It doesn't have to be just the two of us. We could expand our family. We could be three. Dylan, I'd like to have a baby. With you."

He stops the car. "Is that—Is that even possible?" The emotion in his voice is unmissable.

"I've never considered it before, but I asked my doctor and he said I yes. I'd have to be careful but I'm healthy enough to do it if that's what I want. And I think I want that very much. What do you think?"

She knows he would do anything for her, to make her happy. He likes kids, he's good with them. Even if he didn't want one he would probably say yes. But there is no mistaking the look of sheer love and devotion in his eyes when he answers.

"Yes. Yes. I would like that very much."

Soon she gets rid of her oxygen tubes and they're both breathless, making out in the front seat like a pair of teenagers in love. She rides him right here and there with a combination of passion and carefulness until he spends himself inside of her as she absorbs his nonsensical words of eternal love with kisses.

They used to be alone, but they've found each other, and now they're creating something else altogether. Something new.

FIN

* * *

This time it's for real, guys. There's no moving forward from here. But I'll probably write more of this pairing if you like it, particularly now that they've had their first real scene together and that w've found out she knew so much about his job mh...the possibilities!

Leave a review and let me know what you think :)


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